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sixthiterationlogs2017-04-21 06:01 pm
3ofswords) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-04-21 06:01 pm
Entry tags:
[closed] think of me and burn, and let me hold your hand
WHO: Kira
WHERE: House 39 + 40
WHEN: April 21, during/after the feast
OPEN TO: Jyn
WARNINGS: Dealing with old grief and the loss of Casey, possible NSFW content
STATUS: N/A
Somewhere between his second plate of food and his last sip of scotch, a pit had started growing in Kira's gut. His attention had drawn over and over to the dog, as if to make sure she was still there, and finally he'd wondered--why was he watching her alone? Why was he eating alone, was Casey's aversion to the crowd so great he'd resisted the food? Was this like the first day, offering him a second helping of bread and feeling him panic?
Kira had put his hands in his pockets, drawn a card. Not even pulled it free to look at the three spades, hear the crunch and sift of the shovel in the dirt. He'd felt for the die in his other pocket, linked to the others, and found the three side with a scratch through the dots.
Hands shaking, he'd taken several more sips of the scotch and lifted a second bottle--clear, dry gin--before slipping away entirely.
He's wrong. His powers barely work, Casey's been running around the village doing chores, was probably crafting new chairs to replace the missing. Kira would find him and march him to the feast, make him experience real coffee and herb-crusted pheasant and more of the chocolate he seems so fond of. They could fix plates and climb up to the roof like before the move, watch the sun set, watch Aurora turn circles and bark at them from the clearing below. Kira would look at him with the light going gold and amber all around, and he wouldn't keep wasting time, he'd reach across, he'd coax Casey in, he promises--he swears, if Casey can just be at the house--
It's full of shadows when he makes it all the way back, feet sloppy, boots knocking his own ankles as he abandons the party and the dog in a tipsy haze of fear.
He stumbles through the house, throat closing for every empty room, until he finally finds the bathroom door shut and no sound from behind. "You don't have to open that," he murmurs, resting his head on the door, closing his eyes, the bottles still gripped in his hand. "You can fucking walk away." But it's only moments before he pushes inside, eyes already cut in a hot line across his face and his throat choking on nothing.
Casey's shirts are on the sink, Kira's green flannel the focal point of the space. Next to the basin sit the other die, the casings, the harmonica. Like he'd finished a task and actually thought to scrub off before coming to find them, a hundred exchanges of wash your hands and the unsaid make me. His pants and boots are missing, and Kira imagines him half-undressed, the lines of him filling out, the scars below his shoulders and ribs. He stands where he imagines Casey stood, until he didn't anymore, and looks in the mirror, wondering what Casey saw as he disappeared.
Lifting the shirt, he tucks the worn fabric up against his throat. There's a rank but familiar smell to it, the clothing well-worn, happily shared. The bed doesn't smell quite as strong, the way he made Casey wash up before climbing in. This is what he has. A shirt, a grave. Nothing from Ty but the first of three swords in his heart, and he chokes once, bends his head once into the folds, before he drags it all back and tries to put the cork in it.
He's not going to do this here. He's not going to do this period, if he can help it, but he's not going to lose it in the last place Casey stood, where Bodhi could find him and feel obligated.
It's no one's job to fix this, or fix him.
Bottles hanging from one hand and shirt hanging from the other, Kira walks back out of the house, down the steps. His feet keep moving, and he's not going to the grave this time: he's walking across the path, shoving his way into the ruins across the way. Maybe he'll carry all the way through, into the woods, out to the wall. Maybe he'll use the shirt for kindling and set the place alight, finish what the world started and fulfill the fucking prophecy of his end.
Or maybe he'll just crawl under the remnants of the dining table, feeling terrible and small, and curl up around the shirt and bottles both.
WHERE: House 39 + 40
WHEN: April 21, during/after the feast
OPEN TO: Jyn
WARNINGS: Dealing with old grief and the loss of Casey, possible NSFW content
STATUS: N/A
Somewhere between his second plate of food and his last sip of scotch, a pit had started growing in Kira's gut. His attention had drawn over and over to the dog, as if to make sure she was still there, and finally he'd wondered--why was he watching her alone? Why was he eating alone, was Casey's aversion to the crowd so great he'd resisted the food? Was this like the first day, offering him a second helping of bread and feeling him panic?
Kira had put his hands in his pockets, drawn a card. Not even pulled it free to look at the three spades, hear the crunch and sift of the shovel in the dirt. He'd felt for the die in his other pocket, linked to the others, and found the three side with a scratch through the dots.
Hands shaking, he'd taken several more sips of the scotch and lifted a second bottle--clear, dry gin--before slipping away entirely.
He's wrong. His powers barely work, Casey's been running around the village doing chores, was probably crafting new chairs to replace the missing. Kira would find him and march him to the feast, make him experience real coffee and herb-crusted pheasant and more of the chocolate he seems so fond of. They could fix plates and climb up to the roof like before the move, watch the sun set, watch Aurora turn circles and bark at them from the clearing below. Kira would look at him with the light going gold and amber all around, and he wouldn't keep wasting time, he'd reach across, he'd coax Casey in, he promises--he swears, if Casey can just be at the house--
It's full of shadows when he makes it all the way back, feet sloppy, boots knocking his own ankles as he abandons the party and the dog in a tipsy haze of fear.
He stumbles through the house, throat closing for every empty room, until he finally finds the bathroom door shut and no sound from behind. "You don't have to open that," he murmurs, resting his head on the door, closing his eyes, the bottles still gripped in his hand. "You can fucking walk away." But it's only moments before he pushes inside, eyes already cut in a hot line across his face and his throat choking on nothing.
Casey's shirts are on the sink, Kira's green flannel the focal point of the space. Next to the basin sit the other die, the casings, the harmonica. Like he'd finished a task and actually thought to scrub off before coming to find them, a hundred exchanges of wash your hands and the unsaid make me. His pants and boots are missing, and Kira imagines him half-undressed, the lines of him filling out, the scars below his shoulders and ribs. He stands where he imagines Casey stood, until he didn't anymore, and looks in the mirror, wondering what Casey saw as he disappeared.
Lifting the shirt, he tucks the worn fabric up against his throat. There's a rank but familiar smell to it, the clothing well-worn, happily shared. The bed doesn't smell quite as strong, the way he made Casey wash up before climbing in. This is what he has. A shirt, a grave. Nothing from Ty but the first of three swords in his heart, and he chokes once, bends his head once into the folds, before he drags it all back and tries to put the cork in it.
He's not going to do this here. He's not going to do this period, if he can help it, but he's not going to lose it in the last place Casey stood, where Bodhi could find him and feel obligated.
It's no one's job to fix this, or fix him.
Bottles hanging from one hand and shirt hanging from the other, Kira walks back out of the house, down the steps. His feet keep moving, and he's not going to the grave this time: he's walking across the path, shoving his way into the ruins across the way. Maybe he'll carry all the way through, into the woods, out to the wall. Maybe he'll use the shirt for kindling and set the place alight, finish what the world started and fulfill the fucking prophecy of his end.
Or maybe he'll just crawl under the remnants of the dining table, feeling terrible and small, and curl up around the shirt and bottles both.
no subject
It's time to the put her dagger aside with his knives, even if it's just on the bedside table, even if it's just for one night. They can sheath them where they belong in the morning, they can look for better ways to carry them.
"It is nearby," he answers, voice finally drying. There are tear tracks to wipe away when he pulls back, and he uses the hand at her throat to do it. The other lingers, palm soaking up heat, feeling the wings beat in her chest. She's nerves and memories, she's--almost girlish, in how little she's done this and all she wants it to be.
He's had that before, he knows what to do with it. Tears leak without the feeling when he swipes his thumb over the soft skin under his eyes, catch on his fingers and trail down them instead. He wipes them on his thigh and gives her the smile he can manage, tries to make it about her: eyes taking their time on the edges of her face, finding her eyes, trying all the harder like her face is the reason. When he takes his hand from her chest he slides it up, cups her cheek like he's cupping the parts of her that want to cry too, and he leans in for one more kiss before he picks up the shirt in his lap, the bottle at his hip, and crawls out from under the table.
When he's done, he transfers his crutches to the same hand, and reaches a hand down to the one he left under the table.
no subject
She belly-crawls her way out from underneath it, just a little - just enough to suck in clean air and let it begin to chip away at the soot in her chest.
Her eyes flinch at the tender touch of her cheek, so rarely having been shown such softness, such care in her young life. There's a quiet breath of nervous air that leaks out of her then, quickly stifled by the rejoining of mouths. She slides herself against and along the floor, ducking her head to avoid from hitting the edge of the table as she comes out from underneath, and reaches up for his hand, allowing them both to hoist her to her feet.
no subject
Aurora: he left her at the party, but there are plenty of people she'd make a substitute of. Bodhi was there, and he trusts the people Aurora likes enough to follow around with her safety.
Jyn's grip in his hand brings him back, and he squeezes it once before picking his way back out of the derelict house. His feet stumble less, but only for his renewed concentration on the task. Back in the waning sunlight, standing together at the top of Ren's steps, he passes the bottle over to her. "Have some, if you like. God knows I have."
no subject
She nods, gripping the bottle's neck in her fingers. She'd had some at the feast, the first sip of alcohol since she'd been 12, and it had left her skull aching. Still, she thinks, might as well.
"What is it?" she asks, bringing the opening to her nose. "Guess it doesn't matter, so long as it works, right?" She doesn't wait for an answer, instead bringing the bottle to her lips and allowing the liquid to rush in, flood her mouth like a canyon.
no subject
Though she'd balked at the affectionate touch on her cheek, he doesn't think it was out of--fear. She isn't used to it. Maybe Cassian was a first, and he wasn't here long enough, or he wasn't affectionate, or--Kira doesn't know.
He isn't trying to think about that, or be that. He just lifts her hand and kisses the knuckles, before starting down the steps. He'll lead her across on the tether, and no one will get lost, and no one will have to think too much with a bottle in each of their free hands doors to close against the rest of the world.
no subject
"This is the drink Credence asked about!" The connection and utter irony of it all makes a burst of laughter rush forth through her lips, which she quickly covers with the back of the wrist attached to the hand still clutching the bottle. She shakes her head. "He asked me if I'd been named after the drink, but I hadn't an idea of what he was talking about. It's rather good, I think." She holds the bottle up, swirls it around in front of her face. "I'm not sure watch scotch is, though," she adds on, flicking her eyes over to his other hand.
The press of his lips to her knuckles almost demands a quiet sob from her gut, but she manages to stifle it down. Such a simple gesture, one she'd seen her Papa do a thousand times with her Mama's hand, and sometimes even with her own - so small and tiny in his, so strong and commanding - but the mere act of it sucks the breath out of her lungs. She manages to command her feet to move, follow him across the street, but her mind's focused on the lingering warmth against the mountains at the back of her hand.
Whatever this is, whatever it turns out to be - she'll remember this, and there'll be no bitterness, no sadness, no wishing for it to have been different.